Nights of Reading
by Sherlockian Dreams
Summary: On nights when cases have been closed and Sherlock's boredom reaches a peak, all John wants to do is block out the insanity and read for a night. Little does he know that Sherlock has another idea. And it might just turn out to be everything John needed after all. (Progressive fluff and Johnlock).
1. Chapter 1

Nights of Reading

 _A/n: so this is basically me writing on impulse again. This has a lot of fluff, and is something I worked on ages ago but didn't publish. Reading it tonight made me realise that it was worth a publish. It is fully complete, but I am breaking it into chapters so it's not exceedingly long. For those following Stay With Me (the story I am working on long term), the next instalment is coming soon!_

 _So yeah, hope you like it x_

 **Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock in any way. It belongs to the amazing Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and in this case Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. I do not own the picture I used for inspiration either, I simply enjoy writing in this field.**

Sherlock was bored.

That was the problem.

When Sherlock was bored, that meant he stropped and paced and grumbled and broke a mug and did very little else for the entire night. And I would have to sit there and watch him, knowing there was absolutely nothing I could do to stop him. That's how it ended. that's how it always ended.

Of course, living with this crazy overgrown five year old as long as I had meant that I was extremely accustomed to this behaviour, and, strangely, I came to expect it when there was a particular lull in the constant flow of cases and problems he usually had.

This particular boredom fit had been brewing for a while. He hadn't had a case for four days and that was driving him mad. His mood had got progressively worse as the days wore on until I was completely worn out by it.

So what did I do on nights like this?

Simple.

I read.

Small books, big books, favourite books, new books. Books were wonderful things when you wanted to escape. I lay stretched out full on the green leather sofa, my head resting on the arm, propped up with the Union Jack pillow, and I read.

Today I was reading one of my favourites. The sofa was warm and soft and the fire was on, cracklings gently. Through the windows, I could see the rain hammering the glass, the dark night looming in. Overall, I was incredibly comfy, and usually ignoring Sherlock on nights like this was easy.

I had five minutes. Five minutes of uninterrupted reading while Sherlock broke the cupboard, until he noticed me stretched out on the sofa, and reading.

"John!" He sounded outraged at my disinterest with the remains of wood left on the table.

I glanced up at him, annoyed. One page was all I had read.

 _One page._

"What?" I sighed.

"What are you doing?" His sharp eyes scanned me, settling on the book. In his stilled hand, he held the cupboard handle, which looked rather lonely without anything to stick to.

I raised the book a little, nodding at it.

"Reading... I thought you were good at observations?"

He shrugged, ignoring my jab, "I'm bored John,"

"How strange, I hadn't thought that at all," I remarked sarcastically, giving him a sidelong frown.

He bit his lip, and ran a hand through his already messy hair, making the curls stick up ludicrously in all different directions.

"What are you reading?"

I slammed my book, with rather too much force, down onto the arm of the chair and sighed loudly, "it's a book Sherlock, why do you care?"

"I'm bored," he whined. He threw the cupboard handle across the room, where it hit the bookcase. I followed it's progress to the floor with my eyes with a barely restrained sigh.

I pinched the bridge of my nose. Jesus. Christ, "go text Lestrade or something, I'm trying to read here,"

He groaned, "I've already texted him 15 times today John! He has no cases! The website is dead, the phones are dead, the newspapers are _offending_ me with their lack of murders, I can't deal with it- I. Am. Bored!" He yelled. He was pacing again. Undettered pacing.

"Okay, okay I get it, shut up," I shouted, just as loudly. He frowned at me, eyes wide. Suddenly I knew what he was doing. He was trying to turn the puppy eyes on me. Oh no. What he wanted me to do I had no idea, but I was having none of it anyway.

I turned away from him deliberately and continued reading slowly, hoping he would catch on to my indifference and move on.

There was silence for a blissful 10 seconds.

"I'm bored," he tried again. He sounded agonised.

"I know,"

"I'm bored,"

"I. Know!" I snapped.

The room fell silent. For a moment, I thought it was over.

But then...

"Can I read with you?" He suddenly asked shyly. I stared at him, hardly believing what I'd heard. It took a lot of effort for me to stop myself from gaping. Instead, I blinked carefully, trying to make sense of what he had just said. Had that been bloody real?

"What?" I looked up, incredibly bemused.

He shuffled over meekly, "can I read with you?"

I stared at him, loosing the restraint and letting my mouth hang open. Okay, I definitely hadn't been imagining things now. I stared up and down at my mad flatmate. My best mate. Ruffled and crazy with too-big pyjamas that hung off his too-thin frame carelessly. No order at all. His skin pale. Too pale, like he'd never been in the sun. Though that may be true- I'd never seem him wear anything other than long sleeves. His eyes had darkened by the depths of his insane boredom; no sparkle in those eyes. No excitement, no thinking. Just boredom.

I waited to see if he was joking. But when it was clear that he definitely wasn't, I spoke.

"Do you... Want to?" I attempted to clarify, brows furrowed.

He nodded eagerly, eyes shining.

Okay he was starting to scare me now. This was not normal Sherlock behaviour. In fact, it was far from normal Sherlock behaviour. As far as you could go.

So much so, that I was quite at a loss of what to say to him in response.

"Umm-," I began, before realising I had no idea what to say after it.

But Sherlock, apparently, took that as consent.

He prodded my arm, none too gently, "move over a bit, I'm not that thin,"

I scowled, realising I had no choice in the matter, and shuffled myself across a few inches, until my left arm was pushed up against the back of the sofa. At least the sofa was soft.

He grinned, and slipped on, lying carefully beside me on his side, facing me, so he could fit on the edge. His crazy hair tickled my neck slightly.

He looked like he was teetering on the edge, so I shuffled over a bit more, and arranged the pillow so he could lie his head on it too.

He moved his arm as I moved, looping it behind my neck and taking hold of the book edge, from my left side. I looked at him strangely. This wasn't what you would call typical flat mate, or even best friend, behaviour.

He, however, appeared indifferent. I highly doubted that he knew why this action caused me to feel just a tad awkward. This was Sherlock I suppose, oblivious to personal space.

I didn't bring it up though; there was no reason to.

So we lay there, and Sherlock was reading with me. He himself looked quite comfortable with the closeness of it all, but I was struggling a little. It was weird for me. I could smell his shampoo.

But it worked. Sherlock wasn't bored anymore, and when we finished reading, he was calm and collected and even helped me clean the flat a little.

If only a little.

I didn't say anything about the strangeness of lying on the sofa together. Neither did Sherlock. And that was fine with me.

A/n: This really is an impulse publishing, and so reviews would be amazing! X


	2. Chapter 2

A few days after the strange reading encounter, I was rather reluctant to read again. Unfortunately, Sherlock was in a huge temper, and it wasn't long after the kettle was thrown out of the window when I decided that I just needed to escape.

As soon as I picked up the book, it was like a switch had been flicked. He came over meekly, like a puppy waiting for a treat.

He didn't have to say anything this time. After eying him for a moment warily, I shuffled over and nodded at him to join me. He did so without any hesitation.

It was very quiet. Nothing but the ticking of the clock and Sherlock's soft breathing broke the silence. I could feel the rise and fall of his chest, he was so close. I closed my eyes a little, taking a deep breath.

Sherlock shifted slightly, the sofa and his sofa pyjama fabric rustling gently. I felt his weight shift forward and I open my eyes warily.

He glances up at me shyly from under his eyelashes. I didn't even know Sherlock was capable of shyness, but there he was, and all that sprang to mind was shy.

And then he wrapped his free arm around my waist and snuggled (yes snuggled) closer to me, drawing in the warmth. His head in my chest. A soft weight.

My eyes widened at him.

"Sherlock- um," this was very awkward now. I raised my right knee to allow more room for his lanky legs to fit. Sherlock sighed, irritated. I felt his warm breath ghost across my front.

"John, can you just relax? This really is just me reading,"

"Right," as usual, Sherlock had deduced exactly what was going around my head, and as usual, I was a little embarrassed at being caught thinking about it, "right. Ok,"

A few minutes after that, my free hand finished playing with the hole and I found it playing with Sherlock's hair instead. My fingers twiddled his soft curls and I wondered vaguely if this was inappropriate for me to be doing. Though to be honest, I really didn't apply normal to anything to do with Sherlock. I was warm and he was comfy.

After the snuggle encounter, Sherlock thought it was perfectly fine to do it again.

And again. And again.

I didn't know what to say to him, so I let him do it. Whenever he was bored, and I was reading, he would immediately drop what he was doing and join me. It got to the point where I pushed myself against the sofa back before he even knew I was reading, in readiness for when he joined me. There was always a thin slot on the edge of the sofa for Sherlock to fit.

He fitted perfectly too. Lying on his side with his right arm around me, the other holding the book. Like it was meant to be.

I sigh a lot (perhaps I shouldn't), eyeing him apprehensively, but I don't remove his arm from my waist and I don't lean away from him.

"This book is boring John," Sherlock mutters into my jumper after a moment of quiet cuddling one night.

"Shut up, no it's not,"

"Where is the story line? There's no story line, all they do is talk," he sighed, sounding irritated.

I rolled my eyes, "I'm guessing this isn't working for you either then?" Though it seemed a better option than setting the flat alight.

"No,"

I sighed, "well, this is my favourite book so yeah, you just destroyed me a little there,"

"Oh? Sorry," he didn't sound it. He sounded bored.

Even then though, he buried his nose deeper in my neck. His nose was cold.

So I told him so.

"Your nose is cold," I complained.

"You're warm," he replied amiably.

"You're making me cold,"

"How so? The rest of me is much warmer than my nose. It's just because my nose sticks out a bit,"

I chuckle, continuing to mess with his hair, "okay, you are warm,"

He drops his side of the book, letting it flop onto my chest, "this is nice,"

"What the book?" I ask dubiously.

"No," he scoffed, "this," he nuzzled into me to prove it. His now free left hand is on my cheek. His fingers are soft, gentle, careful. I find myself shuddering slightly at the ghosting touch. God.

"Sherlock, stop it," I groaned, "people might talk,"

"People do little else, this book is written proof,"

I chuckle. He doesn't stop.

I lie there silently for a while, letting him cuddle me, and making the most of it while it was there. I feel much more comfortable with it now than I used to. Though I suppose having nights and nights of it does make it a normal part of your routine. I came to expect it now, almost missed it when he didn't join me. Now, I drop my head back on the pillow, letting it loll to one side, brushing Sherlock's curls.

He glances up at me again. "John..." He mumbles, his voice lacking the usual confidence. His gentle fingers still against my cheek, and their absence leaves burning, I miss it. I worry about this.

"Hmm?"

When I glance down I see him staring at me. Intensely. I blinked. He had turned away.

"Nothing,' he said quietly with a sigh.

 _A/n: I hope you like it! Reviews would make my day x_


	3. Chapter 3

There was one night, a few days after that, when Sherlock was exceptionally quiet. He didn't strop or pace or smash a mug. In fact he didn't do anything. He just sat there, in his armchair, knees drawn up to his chest, staring at nothing. And the flat was eerily quiet for it. My ears almost seem to ring with the silence. I looked up at him, but he was paying me no attention.

"Sherlock," I said finally, when the silence was too much to bare, "are...are you okay?" It was quiet, and tentative, as though I were treading on glass and scared of it breaking.

He didn't look up, or move or indeed do anything at all to acknowledge my question.

"Sherlock..." I sighed. It was painful, seeing him so withdrawn like that. It wasn't right. It wasn't normal. Well, it was _normal_ for Sherlock to have quiet days, but those were days on a case, where he needed to think; where he would retreat into his mind and shut everything out. It wasn't like that today. He didn't have a case, for one.

"I'm fine," he finally replied, almost mutely, his voice dull and emotionless. It sounded like he was trying hard to keep it that way. Like he didn't want me to know something. I frowned.

"What's happened? Has a case gone badly?" I come quietly over to him, reach out a hand.

Then I hesitate. Should I be doing this?

I realise that I want to. And I'm not afraid to. Those night of snuggling had cured me of my fear of touching him.

So I breath slowly, and I rest my hand on his arm, gently.

He flinches slightly at my touch, then finally looks up at me, as if expecting me to move it at any moment. I don't. Our stare lasts a long time. Him watching me almost daringly, accusingly. Me watching him worried. A frown creases my forehead.

"You can tell me Sherlock," I say quietly, breaking the silence, "I'm your friend,"

For one small moment, the blank mask he'd put up in place cracks. So minutely. There's pain in its place. I'd learnt to read all his expressions. But this was one I'd never seen before. It was emotional pain. Sherlock was experiencing emotional pain. I stare at him, suddenly completely unsure what to do. I have no idea how to help him.

"Sherlock..." I begin slowly.

"I'm fine, John," he talks over me, lowering his knees. I don't move my hand. Instead, I rub gentle circles into his shoulder. He stiffens slightly.

"John, I'm fine, you can stop," his voice is strained, tight; he's staring hard at the ground. I stop immediately, wondering why I feel disappointed. For a moment I don't know what to do. I've never really known how to deal with him like this.

But then I have an idea.

"Read with me?" I ask quietly.

Sherlock hesitates. For the first time in weeks he hesitates.

"I thought you didn't like it," he mumbles accusingly.

I shrug, my mouth quirking up at the corner.

"I do like it," I say honestly, "it's nice,"

He watches me for a moment.

Then, finally, he nods.

I let go, and make for the sofa, but suddenly his hand is in mine, our fingers entwined. He pulls me onto his armchair with him instead. I'm sitting awkwardly on his lap and his arms are around me, his chest leaning into my back. It's warm, and comforting in a way. I don't move away. I open my book, and I start to read as though this is normal. He comes closer, sensing my willingness. I can feel the heat of his skin, and his steady heart beat.

A few moments later, Sherlock's head drops, until he's resting against my shoulder, a soft weight. His cheek is touching mine. I can feel the flutter of his eyelashes against my skin. The closeness of this movement shocks me, though I can't deny I like it, and that scares me a little. I close my eyes for a second, trying to make sense of what I was feeling.

"Don't you mind?" Sherlock asks softly after a moment, sounding confused. That confuses me too. I didn't think he was sensitive to my personal space issues in that way.

"No. No I'm fine," I say, after debating it for a long while, and when I breathe deeply, I let him hold me closer, no longer worrying about the consequences, "it's all fine,"

We are silent after that, thought I'm not reading. I not sure that Sherlock is either.

The week passes, and neither myself or Sherlock mentions that night again. I'm reading again, and I leave the customary space on the edge, but Sherlock isn't making his way toward it like he usually is. I leave it for ten minutes, and then I start to get worried. Why isn't he coming? For some reason, though I have read alone for a long time since moving in with Sherlock, this time I feel an overwhelming sense of longing and sadness at the thought of that spare space, usually filled by Sherlock. I wanted to feel his warmth and hear his breathing in my ear. I wanted to cuddle with him like we usually did. I wanted him to hold the left side of the book like he usually did, his arm going behind my neck, his hand brushing my cheek...

I put the book down. Sherlock is sitting in his armchair. He looks uncomfortable. He looks like he wants to read with me as much as I want him to. I turn away again.

I can feel his eyes on me, watching, waiting. They almost burn.

I glance up, and he's looking away again.

"Are you okay?" I ask.

He shrugs.

"You comfy?"

"No,"

He says it with such definitive finality, that I don't say anymore. I slowly continue reading. If Sherlock wanted to read, he would be here already. So I don't say anything, though I feel very lonely. Even though he is just a few meters away from me.

 _A/n: hope you're still enjoying it! We may be approaching some angst. A review or two would be amazing! X_


	4. Chapter 4

"John," Sherlock whispers. I jump, putting my book down carefully. Today was another night where Sherlock hadn't joined me.

He hadn't for a while, and slowly, I'd slipped back into my old position, taking up most of the sofa. But getting rid of the little Sherlock-space hadn't got rid of the sadness. Or the loneliness that accompanied it. I couldn't stop wondering why his behaviour had changed. I didn't understand why.

Sherlock is in his chair. He isn't facing me.

"Are you okay?" I call out to him.

He stirs a little.

"John..."

I slide off the sofa and head over to him, nervously wondering what was wrong.

When I'm over there though, I realise with a jolt that he's asleep. He's fast asleep in the chair.

"John," He mumbles, his eyes flickering under their lids. I don't know what to do. Sherlock is whispering my name in his sleep. I feel like there's a tight rubber band squeezing my heart. I hesitate; then stroke his face gently. It's soft and warm. Unblemished and pale against my rougher, tan skin.

"It okay Sherlock," I whisper, "I'm here,"

I close my eyes and hold his face in my hand. Part of me wonders what the hell I'm doing. But another part, a much more prominent part, knows I want to. And tells me to continue.

"I'm always here," I sigh.

When had I started feeling like this? I certainly hadn't noticed it until now. I shook the feeling off and slipped back to the sofa, leaving Sherlock sleep in peace.

But this time, not even reading helped me escape. The rubber band kept on squeezing and my breathing was shallow. I wanted to be close to Sherlock. More than I had ever before. I closed my eyes and tried to dispel the feelings.

I ended up falling asleep instead.

The feelings didn't go away. Not the day after, or the day after that or even the week after that. What was worse was that Sherlock seemed to get more and more withdrawn and I had no idea what the hell was going on. Everything seemed surreal.

I started taking up the whole sofa again. Not leaving spaces, because I knew Sherlock wouldn't come. He never did anymore. The reading, that used to be an affective escape from Sherlock's moods, now served as a painfully lonely reminder of the cuddles we shared, if only for a short time. I ended up remembering those nights desperately with vivid detail and wishing that it would happen again. It was funny really. When he had begun the routine, especially the first few times, I had been very uncomfortable. Talk about not knowing what you had until it was gone.

I had considered asking him, but he was so silent, and closed up, it was like he had shut a door on me. One that I couldn't unlock. One that not even the occasional case could open.

I would be a fool if I tried to tell myself it didn't hurt.

I was lying on the sofa pretending to read when I realised suddenly that Sherlock was beside me. I stared at him for a moment, unsure how to deal with his presence after him being so quiet for so long.

"Hey," I said gently, finally. He'd been rather sensitive the last few days and I didn't want to cross a line, so I kept my voice soft, "you okay?"

Sherlock seemed to bite his tongue, before launching into speech.

"I just want to say I'm sorry," he said carefully.

"What for?" I asked quietly, though I could tell by his face that he knew that I knew exactly what for. I avoided his eyes, and closed my book. This was all too familiar, and it hurt.

"For…being…odd," He scrunched his face up at his own choice of words, and they did sound awkward.

"It's okay," I lied, trying not to let my hurt show.

"I've been thinking a lot," he continued, almost by way of an excuse, "but it didn't really work," He looked surprised at that.

"It's fine," I tell him, though my jaw is set, "what you were thinking about?"

He hesitates again.

"Can I read with you please?"

I blinked; stared at him dubiously, "you were thinking about reading with me?" I ask skeptically, raising my eyebrow.

He bites his lip in a rare show of nerves, and I'm suddenly worried.

"Can I read with you?" He asks again, sidetracking my question instead.

I sigh, but I move over a little. I can't deny that I'm ridiculously relieved by this. He moves slowly, carefully, almost shyly. I hold my breath to prevent my nerves from showing as he lies down next to me, like he used to. The normality of it makes my heart squeeze even more. As he wraps his arm around me, with no hesitation, I lean into him, welcoming his touch. Warmth fills me up. His head snaps up, eyes wide.

I smile, and lean my head on his soft curls. He seems to hold his breath.

"You okay?" I ask calmly. He looks up at me again.

"Are you?" He counters, his brow furrowed together, as though trying to decipher a difficult puzzle.

"Of course," I reply with a smile, "I missed you,"

His frown deepens, eyes wide, and for a moment I am worried that I have said the wrong thing. But then his expression clears and his eyes light up, and it looks like he's solved whatever puzzle that he's been fighting.

"I missed you too," He says, and although he looks uncertain, he speaks with enough confidence for me to believe it. The squeezing in my heart begins to be relieved, as we both realise what it means. I can imagine that I look just as confused as he does.

"John," He says it like a question. I get a peculiar sense of deja vu, remembering a few weeks ago, when he had tried to ask me something, but hadn't got the courage to say anything.

"Yes?" I breathe, and I'm so gentle in my words, so scared of shattering the moment, whatever it was.

His eyes scan my face softly, but there is confidence in his eyes that wasn't there before.

I expect him to say something, but instead he leans forward, eyes fluttering closed, and my brain seizes up as I realise what's about to happen.

 _A/n: I am rather fond of cliffhangers. I hope you're enjoying the fluff, there's more to come! x_


	5. Chapter 5

There it was. The first tiny little touch. Soft and earnest. Tentative. His lips are soft and careful; cautious. As if he's afraid of what he was doing. I know that he's afraid. So am I

I knew that I should tell him to stop and push him away. Some part of me realises that we were rushing in far too quickly, and I shoudn't feel the way that I do.

But my heart begins to pound, quick and hot and my eyes flutter closed, because his kiss is so soft, and beautiful and _dangerous_. I let him kiss me. It makes me burn for his touch.

It was gone too soon. So quickly. My heart flutters hopelessly. When I open my eyes, he is there, so close, I can feel the heat between us. He rests his forehead against mine. His beautiful eyes so close, colours bright, reds, golds, greens, purples hidden in the crystal blue. His pupils wide, black, swallowing everything else. When he studies me closely, he is anxious. I can see his nerves so clearly, it is clear that his mask has been well and truly lifted. I've never seen emotion like this in his face before. Plain, bare and honest. Raw and pure. I look at him in a way I've never looked at him before, and I know that I did the right thing. It feels right. His arms still around me.

I realise I can't tell him to stop. Not when my pulse is throbbing loudly and every sense is painfully aware of his proximity to me. My body aches for his touch. I feel like I've touched a live wire, energy throbbing through my veins.

There's no going back now.

I reached up a hand, and stroke his face, like I had before. From those sharp cheekbones to the soft dark curls, where my fingers embed. My gaze drifts across to his parted lips. His breath hitches, catching in his throat, his cheeks going pink. It send shivers down my spine. He closes his eyes, his warmth breath blowing across my face.

"Please," I whisper, "don't stop,"

This brings a tiny, furtive smile to his lips. He moves forward again, and takes hold of me, bracing my arms so they are caught between our chests. I can feel his heart through the cotton shirt. I splay my hand across it. It's beating hard and fast, like a bird trying to escape a cage. I am struck my the craziness, the pure absurdity of it all. Sherlock had never seemed to be interested in me. Not before we started reading together.

His eyes roam my face, and then he closes the gap. Our lips touch, this time with so much more longing. It's like electricity. Sparking between us.

I kiss him back, letting my reservations fall. After all, what's the point?

I pull him closer, pressing him fully against me, my lips taking hold of his lower lip, sucking gently. His hands suddenly tighten their grip, his lips parting slightly in surprise, huffing out short gasps.

I tug at his hair and run my tongue across his lip. He responds, learning so quickly.

It's soft and it beautiful and we don't stop.

It is only then that I realise finally what that squeezing in my heart was. It was him. It was always him.

I pull away, and his mouth follows me blindly, capturing mine is a soft, chaste brush of the lips. We stay like that, gasping slightly. I hold on to him tightly, almost afraid that it's all a dream.

"That's what I was thinking about," Sherlock gasps after a long silence, panting against me. He lets his head fall into my chest. I bury my face in his dark, soft curls. The book lies forgotten, "I wanted to tell you that... That I had... That I wanted you, but I didn't know if you felt the same,"

I don't answer him. Instead, I wrap my arms more tightly around him, and hold him close. So close. It doesn't seem close enough.

"Is that why you were so quiet?" I whisper into his hair. I hear him sigh.

"I was trying to see if you felt the same way, and I was scared that if you didn't, and I got too close, it would ruin everything,"

"God your daft," I laugh gently.

We kiss again. Our fourth. It's just as beautiful and perfect as the last time. When it is over, he lets me go, and then moves back to let me breathe. It's unusually thoughtful of him, and I'm touched. I smile at him. His return smile is soft, quirking up at the corners. Its a shy, uncertain smile, and I realise immediately that it's adorable.

"So..." Sherlock says after a while, "So can I kiss you again sometime?"

I lean over, and I kiss him again in answer, and he laughs gently, "I shall take that as a yes!"

"Please do," I smile. He grins, and his eyes crinkle up at the edges. I'm almost overtaken by the urge to kiss them.

"So," He says again, almost looking nervous again, "Do you want to read with me?"

It feels like normality, when he asks me that. I almost laugh.

"I thought you didn't like the book?"

"I didn't but there are lots of other things I might like," His grin now can only be described as mischievous. He almost looks like a child.

I roll my eyes, but I can't stop smiling.

"Fine, ok,"

He smiled.

I smiled back.

 _A/n: Aaannnddd that's all folks! I truly hope that you enjoyed it, and that the ending was okay. A massive thank you to all those who have review and liked and followed this story, you are all amazing :) Reviews would be amazing :) x_


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